


Until I'm Set Free

by illyria13



Category: Flashpoint
Genre: Abuse, Child Abuse, Explicit Language, Families of Choice, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Team
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-24
Updated: 2012-08-24
Packaged: 2017-11-12 18:51:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/494515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illyria13/pseuds/illyria13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes family is what breaks you. And sometimes family is what puts you back together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Until I'm Set Free

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not the characters or the lyrics or anything you might recognize. 
> 
> Timeline: No set timeframe, sometime after Sam joins the team but before season 3.
> 
> Warning: Abuse. I tried not to be too graphic but I rated the story accordingly. All abuse did have a point, so if anybody is horrified or offended, well, this is your warning. 
> 
> This story is also posted on Fanfiction.net under the same name and author.

/

_You've got to show them that you're really not scared_

_You're playing with your life, this ain't no truth or dare_

_They'll kick you, then they'll beat you, then they'll tell you it's fair_

_So beat it, but you want to be bad_

_Just beat it (beat it)_

_No one wants to be defeated._

-"Beat It" by Michael Jackson

/

He isn't sure what he'd expected for this night, but it turns out to be rather similar to ones in the past.

The ones that end in blood and screams.

Why he bothers going to visit his parents is beyond him. It never seems to end well, especially if he says anything to his father other than "yes, sir". Maybe he hopes that one day it'll be different. Maybe he'd like to believe that people could change.

Or maybe he just likes getting the crap kicked out of him.

He'd like to think it'd be easier if his father was drunk. It wouldn't be excusable, but it might be easier. He could tell himself then that his father loved him, just not when he was drinking. But his father wasn't drunk. His father didn't drink at all.

His father is stone cold sober when he beats his only son black and blue, and Sam can admit to himself that sometimes he's afraid that his father will kill him, all within his right frame of mind.

And it doesn't take a lot to set his father off.

This time, though, Sam knows exactly what he does to enrage him. You'd think by now he's learned to let his fathers comments roll right off of him but apparently not. Because when his father proceeds to bring up both his time served in Kandahar and his now-current time with the SRU, Sam knows he won't be able to hold his tongue.

And he's right. The moment his father calls him a 'weak coward for leaving the military and joining a bunch of pansy-ass weaklings that like to talk all day instead of handling everything with the business end of a rifle' Sam snaps.

Later that night, when he reflects on this incident, he doesn't even remember what it is that he says. All he knows is that it was the wrong thing when in the presence of his father.

There's silence, like the kind before the skies open up and the winds howl and the world descends into hell while nature screams in fury, and Sam braces himself.

And then stars explode behind his eyes as his fathers' fist connects with his cheek, causing him to stumble. But he locks his knees because he refuses to fall, refuses to give into any sign of weakness because weakness is what his father thrives on. His lip splits with the second punch, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth, and he resists the urge to spit it out. Instead, he swallows the blood and grits his teeth.

By the fifth punch he's on his knees, head ringing and jaw aching, blood on his face and in his mouth and in his hair, dripping onto the expensive rug. Idly, he notices that it's a new rug, probably cost a fortune, and he's getting so much blood on it that it'll probably be ruined. And he grins to himself in savage triumph, feeling a vague satisfaction at ruining something so costly.

Of course, his father sees the grin and it only throws him into a deeper rage.

When he opens his eyes, hours have past and immediately, Sam knows that his father had just beaten him into unconsciousness. He'd like to say it's a sobering thought, but it isn't.

Sam picks himself up off the floor, wanting to be stunned that his parents had just left him there in his unconscious state but unable to even feign surprise. He stands there, feeling blood trickling down his face and realizes that this is it. This is his life, right here; blood, rugs and videotape, and it isn't going to change.

Because this family cannot change.

He turns around and walks out the front door, ignoring his mothers' calls and pleas to come back inside. He doesn't want to hear what she has to say and he certainly doesn't want to stick around for his father to lay into him again. He's done here; done with this family and this house and all the broken promises and shattered bones. Done with the lies and the bruises and people who don't care for him, have never cared for him, and never will.

His mothers' voice echoes behind him, another empty loss, but she can't make this reality change.

There's nothing she can say, because there is no explanation, no reason or excuse that will ever make it alright for a father to hit his son.

But it's not the first time, and somehow, deep down, he knows it'll never be the last unless he does something about it. So he is. He's walking away.

Walking off into the cold night with nothing but screams, both living and dead, ringing in his ears.

/

An angry bruise stares back at him the next morning, turning deep purple along the edges even as the center glows red like an accusing bull's-eye, and he sighs deeply, feeling tired and empty. His fingers lightly trail over the split in his lip, but not gently enough as the slowly forming scab breaks yet again. He doesn't flinch, however, as a trail of blood drips from it and down his chin, a single drop breaking off and landing on the countertop in front of him.

The door to the locker room swung open and briefly, he closed his eyes, not wanting to have to deal with this but knowing that there isn't a way out of it. He releases a small sigh and opens his eyes again when he hears multiple footsteps, accompanied with familiar laughter, and pulls his carefully constructed mask back onto his face. He looks back in the mirror, the tiredness and emptiness now hidden, and feels a brief flash of something-sorrow, anger, regret- at just how good his mask is at hiding his emotions. It passes, and he turns his attention back to the blood still dripping down his chin, grabbing a towel and carefully dabbing at the cut. He doesn't turn around or even acknowledge the others, instead keeping his eyes solely on the mirror in front of him.

"Hey, Sam! What are you-…"

The enthusiastic voice of Spike trails off as he catches sight of Sam, and he stops in his tracks causing Lew to nearly run him over at the unexpected halt. The young man has to grab onto a nearby locker to stay upright and curses slip from his lips as he struggles with gravity. It'd have been a funny sight, if Sam had been able to feel anything other than numb at the moment.

"Spike! What the hell, man, why did you…"

His voice too trails off and a small smirk slips out on Sam's face involuntarily, some cynical humor found in his seeming ability to shock his teammates into not completing their sentences. It fades quickly, though, and he lets his mind focus back on washing away the blood. He wrings the cloth out in the spray of water, watching the red mingle with the clear water, and wonders if he too will ever be able to fade away into nothingness.

"Sam?"

He squeezes the excess water out, then returns to his self-appointed task of dabbing at his lip, rinsing the cloth, lather rinse and repeat, a faint echo ringing in his ears.

"Sam? Buddy, are you okay?"

He ignores the two men, all of his focus on the water and the mirror in front of him, and hopes they'll get the hint and leave him alone. That's all he wants. To be fucking left alone. But the whispered conversation behind him tells him that it won't happen.

"…we going to do, Lew?"

"Go get the others, Spike. Ed, Wordy, Sarge-whoever is here. He needs help."

A furtive side-glance. Sam catches the movement in the mirror. He always does.

"What do you think happened? I mean, who…"

A sharp shake of Lew's head. 

"I don't know. Just…go, get the others. I'm staying with him."

The rest fades back into the ringing noise in his ears and Sam stops paying attention again. A small part of him wonders why he doesn't feel concerned or panicked at the thought of his other team members showing up, but since everything is feeling rather blurred at the moment, he thinks he'll just stick with a single task for now. It takes too much effort to focus on anything else.

He doesn't know how much time passes, but it must have been awhile, because his hands are starting to ache from the continuous wringing of the towel. He continues though, because he's felt worse pain than this, and he doesn't really have a reason to stop. Dimly, he hears Lew, his calm, slow tenor speaking to him through the roaring in his ears but he can't hear any of the specific words. So he lets that fade as well, and sinks into the sensation of water on his hands, a towel against his face, and the copper taste in his mouth.

"-am?"

Funny, that kind of sounded like his name. Except he hasn't heard his name said in quite that tone of voice before. It was a carefully controlled mix of light panic, calm worry and hidden fear. It was also vaguely familiar.

"Sam?"

Repetition catches his attention, breaking him from his task and drawing the world back into focus around him. It's still a little faint, a little blurred and confused, but it's still focus, at least compared to before.

"Come on, talk to me here, Sam."

The light command snaps everything back into place, the familiar role of soldier and commander breaking through the fog, and he drops the towel onto the counter. In the mirror, he snaps his eyes to the left, catching the slightly startled brown of Wordy, before roaming over the others. He takes it all in, positions and faces and emotions, in a single glance before dragging his own blue back to the person who'd been talking to him.

He still doesn't say anything, though.

A slight ripple of unease washes through the others at his unnerving stare, but Ed swallows before picking up where he left off.

"Hey, Sam. How are you doing, bud? You okay?"

He tilts his head slightly, watching as the other man steps forward carefully, and wants to laugh at his words. He doesn't, though, because it's more insulting than caring because, really, he's got bruises on his face, a split lip, he's kind of out of it, and his head is starting to hurt. Does he honestly look okay? But that's too much to say, and a little too hostile, and a part of him wonders where this sudden anger comes from.

So he says nothing. It's better this way.

His silence only makes the others tense, his refusal to talk to them worrying even if not uncharacteristic. But they're nothing if not tenacious, so they look to their chosen speaker, the unspoken negotiator, and wait for his direction.

Ed doesn't waste any time.

Taking slow but measured steps, he closes the distance between himself and Sam, speaking as he does.

"I'm going to step closer, Sam, alright? I just want to get a better look at you. You're bleeding, you know that right?"

Slow, careful, calm and gentle. The steps of somebody walking on the ledge. Or someone about to talk someone off of one.

Sam doesn't particularly like the comparison. He also doesn't like feeling like a subject, but the negotiating tone in Ed's voice doesn't make him feel anything but. And he doesn't particularly like that either.

He watches as Ed gets closer, just within reach, and stop. He doesn't understand the look on his team leaders' face, but it's a glimpse of cold anger before being swallowed under the forced calm. Ed speaks again, reaching out to the blonde sniper with his hand, intent on turning him with a touch on the shoulder.

"What happened, Sam?"

Sam's eyes narrow, watching the hand come closer, and something in him snaps. He spins, lashing out and grabbing the other man's wrist in an iron grip, squeezing until the bones nearly pop, and a growl rumbles from his chest and out his throat. Before he can do anything else, however, a voice shouts through the red haze that has descended over his vision.

"Sam!"

Blue eyes blink before clearing, snapping up to meet concerned brown, and Sam lets Ed go like the skin was on fire. He stumbles back, swallowing hard, and a small whine keens in his throat.

"Don't touch me…"

He breathes it out in a gasp, panic and tension thrumming through his body, even as he keeps backing up.

"I'm sorry…don't touch me…I'm sorry…I didn't…"

He keeps speaking, a rushed litany that doesn't stop even when his back slams into the counter behind him. A hiss escapes at the contact, bruises aching from the impact, and he feels inescapably trapped; nowhere to go without one of these men stopping him. So he stays, grabbing hold of the counter and using it as an anchor, and watches the others warily, afraid for the repercussions but knowing they will come.

When they do, he's caught entirely off guard.

It's Wordy who reacts first.

"Everybody out, now! Spike, Lew, go into the hallway and make sure no one else comes in. You hear me? No one. Sarge, take Ed and wait right outside the door. Make sure he's okay, he had a pretty good grip on his wrist."

Nobody moved, stunned or surprised, Sam couldn't tell. He was too much on the edge of panicking to appreciate it.

Wordy cocked his head.

"I'm sorry, did that sound like a request? Because it wasn't. Everybody out. _Now_."

The growl in his voice makes them jump into action, and as they file out, Sam starts to feel a bit better, less crowded and caged in. His head clears a bit, and he looks up, searching for the tall form of Ed. He's speaking before he even realizes it.

"Ed!"

Both Wordy and Ed look at him, surprise on one face and a searching look on the other, as he continues, nearly stumbling over his words in his haste.

"I'm sorry, Ed, I didn't mean to…you know. Hurt you…I didn't…"

He trails off, unsure as to what else he can say, and braces himself for his team leaders' reply. He's waiting for the anger, the distrust, and the cutting words of disappointment for being so weak.

Ed isn't his father, though.

A look of understanding passes over his face, and blue eyes lock on blue.

"It's okay, Sam. I should have known better. You're a soldier, first."

And Sam feels a rush of warmth at the out Ed is giving him, a nice, plausible reason for his reaction. He nods slowly, thankfully, before turning his eyes back to a point on the floor halfway between him and the two men, pretending to ignore the conversation between them yet still hearing nearly every word and nuance.

"Wordy, are you sure?"

"Go, Ed. Get that wrist checked out. We'll be fine."

"See if he'll let you look at his back. I have a feeling he's hurt more than we can see."

A nod. "Yeah, I heard that noise he made when he hit the counter. I'll see what I can do." A pause. "Ed, I'm not gonna push him. If he doesn't tell me, then he doesn't tell me."

Pause, then sigh.

"Wordy, we need to know. This isn't just a simple paper cut; god, he's _still_ bleeding."

Steel, from head to toe, protective and fierce. "I won't force him, Ed. What's that going to prove?" Calmer now, more knowledgeable than he'd like. "You saw that reaction. You and I both know what that means."

Another sigh. "Alright. Just…do what you can. We'll be outside if you need us."

"I know. Go, I got this."

He senses rather than sees Ed leave, and knows he is now alone with Wordy, so he waits for the other to speak. He's still holding onto the counter and his muscles are starting to ache at the position, so he lets go and folds them over his chest, holding onto himself in an embrace. He looks up again as Wordy sighs, leaning back against a locker and also crossing his arms. His eyes are watching Sam carefully, assessing both his physical and mental state, and Sam shifts uncomfortably at the scrutiny.

"How's the face? Looks like it hurts."

Sam shrugs, still a little wary.

Another sigh before speaking. "Sam, I'm too tired for games. I just want to help. It's okay to admit that you're hurting, you know. You don't always have to be Mr. Stoic Soldier."

A small smile emerges and he has to fight the irrational urge to both laugh and cry.

Wordy smiles, a bit pleased at getting a reaction. "Well, well, there we are. I knew you were still in there somewhere."

They're both silent for a few moments, levity passing. Sam breaks first.

"I didn't mean to grab Ed like that."

Wordy doesn't hesitate. "I know."

"Really. I didn't."

"I know, Sam. Ed knows too. It was just a reaction."

Sam pauses, sensing something in the words but unsure as to what. "Yeah."

"Do you know why you reacted that way?"

He doesn't answer.

"I think you reacted like that because you felt threatened. I think you felt trapped. And I think you were lashing out."

Sam stares at the other man, his blue eyes hardening as Wordy kept speaking.

"But why Ed, Sam? Were you lashing out at him, or was it someone else?"

His breathing sped up, chest getting tighter and tighter.

"You didn't react to him until he tried to touch you. Did you know it was him? Did you know it was Ed reaching out to you, Sam?"

His fists clenched, nails digging into palms and drawing blood. Wordy's voice got softer, yet an urgent undertone rippled through his words.

"Or did you see someone else?"

And just when Sam thinks he can't take anymore, the older man continues, and what he says destroys every barrier and hope he'd thrown up.

"Didn't you say you were visiting your parents last night, Sam?"

He's gone then, lost in a whirlwind of emotions and memories as the events of the night wash over him again, let loose from the box he'd shoved them into. He feels the fists and sees the look on his mothers' face and the anger on his fathers' and fights the urge to scream.

"Shut up."

Sam swallows hard, using every strand of his iron will to get control of himself. He will not let this beat him; he hasn't before and damned if he'll start now.

" _Shut up_."

So he reigns it all in and swallows it down, the anger and fear and pain and hate, and tells himself that he can make it through this because this, this little interrogation, is nothing.

"Sam-,"

"No. Don't. You don't know anything, Wordy. So don't…don't try…no. You're wrong."

And yet, why does it feel like he's trying to convince himself? But he knows the answer deep down, knows the relief and freedom just at his fingertips, because his teammate is right and they both know it.

He's tired of denying it, tired of hiding, tired of pretending that the world is alright, and he thinks that he'd known this was coming. Because why else would he go to the one place where he wouldn't be able to get away with lying? He'd come here to the SRU building, knowing full well that his team would take one look at him and go off the rails. And he may be good at lying but even he isn't that good, because he hadn't even tried to come up with a plausible excuse for his face so really, why is he trying so hard now?

Because he's always been trying. He doesn't know how to do anything else.

His eyes are burning as he looks up, looking for Wordy with a desperate plea in their depths. They meet the other man's eyes, and he fights the urge to cry at the sympathetic pain and sadness he sees in them. He closes his then and looks away, a dry sob escaping in a silent admittance, wonders when he'd let himself get so soft. So weak.

When he looks up again, Wordy is now in front of him, care and concern directed at the blonde as he waits for the other to get control. Once Sam is a bit calmer, he smiles softly and nods his head to the door.

"What do you say we get out of here? Shelley has been asking after you. How about we go 'round my place and get some lunch? She'd be more than happy."

When Sam hesitates, the older man gently coaxes.

"Come on. You know Ed and Sarge aren't going to let you out in the field looking like that and to be honest, I don't want you going home alone. At least at my place you'll get a good, home-cooked meal."

Knowing he's got a point, Sam nodded, before taking a few steps forward. At the movement, though, every ache and pain made themselves widely known and he stumbled, knees locking to keep himself upright even as his head spins. He blinks rapidly, somehow managing not to fall, and becomes aware that Wordy is hovering right at his elbow, hand reaching out to steady him and Sam has to repress the instinctive flinch. As soon as he's stable, however, the other man leans back slightly, giving the blonde some space.

"Sam? You good?"

He nods but stops quickly as his head pounds. "Yeah, I'm okay."

The other isn't buying it.

"You sure? How about we get a medic to come look you over before we go?"

Sam cuts him off loudly.

"No!"

He takes in a breath, telling himself to calm down.

"No, I don't…I'm good. Can we just go?"

Wordy still looks skeptical.

Sam took in another breath.

"Please, Wordy. I'm…I'll be alright. Besides, I'm sure the others…"

He trailed off. The others. He'd forgotten they were still outside, and the thought of facing them all right now nearly throws him into another panic attack.

Wordy looks at him quickly as he pales, and speaks.

"Sam, they're just concerned, alright? You don't have to speak with them if you don't want to. We'll just go straight out to my car and to my place. It's all good. Sam? You copy?"

With great effort, he shakes off his fear and breathes deeply. "Yeah, Wordy, I copy."

The other man looks him over critically before nodding and leading him towards the door. He reaches out to open it for the injured sniper, before pausing and glancing at him.

"You know, Sam, they'd understand. They care about you, man, that's all. You can talk to them, to me, to any one of us."

Blue eyes look away then back, a saddened truth in their depths. "Wordy…I can't…"

"Sam, it's okay."

But he shakes his head, knowing differently from experience. "No, it isn't."

And seeing the destroyed and haunted look on the younger man's face, Wordy has to swallow the urge to hit something hard.

/

Sam doesn't really remember much after they'd walked through the locker room door. He vaguely remembers a few concerned looks and not-so subtle questions, mainly directed at Wordy, and walking down a rather long hallway. He somewhat remembers being led to a car and helped in, a drive down streets before reaching the driveway of a familiar house. He gets out and looks up, remembering a few weeks ago when the team had had a barbeque here, and smiles at the good memories this house evoked.

Wordy's wife, Shelley, is waiting for them on the porch, and she goes to her husband first before turning to greet Sam. He gives her a little smile and a polite nod, the nice gentlemen his mother had taught him to be, but mostly because he genuinely liked Shelley. She was a soft, gentle woman, perfect for Wordy and a good mother to her daughters, warm and affectionate to her husbands' team and always ready to take them under her wing.

They led him to the door, and he follows, the good little soldier he always is, and starts to feel a little bit better, like maybe he's actually going to be okay. They haven't strapped him down and demanded answers, haven't treated him like a leper, and haven't asked him to leave the team. So he thinks things might actually be going pretty good.

Until he comes to the stairs.

They're normal stairs, a row of five; simple concrete leading from the sidewalk to the porch. But he stops anyway. Because it isn't the stairs that are giving him a problem. It's what lies beyond them.

His parents' house had stairs too.

So he stalls then, at the steps into the house, not because he's thrown into a flashback or suddenly afraid his father is going to be behind the front door. No. He stalls because his father _won't_ be there. Because it'll be two little girls (the oldest is at school) waiting for their parents, and there'll be warm lights and a soft couch or chair and a hot meal to eat. Because it'll be normal and happy and loving and safe and those are all things that he's never felt when walking into his own house.

Because he doesn't know how to act once he walks through that door.

And so he stalls, looking at these stairs like they're going to come alive and attack him, wishing someone would come along and shove him forward, because that's what he needs right now, a good hard push forward, and he can't believe-

"Sam?"

-he's falling apart over some fucking stairs.

"Sam, sweetie? Are you alright?"

With effort, he tilts his head up to meet the hazel of Shelley and whatever she sees in them makes hers soften further. She walks back down and lays a gentle hand on his upper arm, smiling as she helps him up the stairs. She can't really do anything for him if he should fall, but she's there less for physical support and more for the struggle hidden in his eyes.

Before he realizes, she's led him into the house and into a downstairs guest bedroom, chattering softly about little things, all designed to put him at ease. Then she leaves him there, pointing towards the towels and the bathroom with the invitation to take a shower. He goes to protest but she fixes him with a stern glare and in it, he sees the steel of a mother, and falls quiet. After promising to bring him a change of clothes, she leaves, shutting the door softly behind her.

He turns the shower on, then waits a few moments, tired and sore and feeling like a shower was a good idea, before moving silently across the carpet to the door to listen to the quietly uttered words. He wants to feel bad for eavesdropping but since they're discussing him, he feels entitled to listen in.

The soft dulcet tones of Shelley are distressed, carefully restrained panic in her words.

"What happened to him, Kevin? He looks terrible."

"Honestly, I'm not really sure, Shel. We found him like that in the locker room, only a bit less responsive, and if I had to guess, probably in shock. He might still be a little shocky so we need to keep an eye on him."

"But you must have some idea. Who would do that, Kev? Is he… is he in a relationship?"

"Shel-,"

"Does he have any friends who might know? Or family? What about family? Maybe we should call them, Kev."

"No, Shelley. We are definitely not calling his family." 

There was a pause.

"What aren't you telling me, Kevin? What do you know?" 

A sigh, deep and worn, and Sam feels guilty for this trouble he has brought down on them. He's about to announce himself and walk out the front door, leaving this family in peace, when Wordy speaks again. 

"Shelley, I, we, think that it was Sam's dad who did that to him."

A sad, soft moan and again, he feels bad, for the pain this woman is feeling. 

"Oh, Kev, what…I mean… do you know for sure? Oh that poor boy…"

"He won't talk about it, so at this point it's still conjecture. But I do know that he was visiting his parents last night and according to the front desk, he came into headquarters at around four am. It doesn't leave a lot of time for any other option. And his father, well, let's just say, we've met."

"And?"

"I can see it."

They're both silent again before Wordy picks up.

"I'm going to try and get him to open up about it later. Right now, I'm more concerned about looking at his injuries. From what I can tell, he's pretty banged up and he refused to have a medic check him over."

"Go. You know where the first-aid kit is. If you need anything let me know."

"Actually, Shel, I, uh,"

"Yes?"

"I kind of managed to get him to come along by telling him you'd…make lunch?"

Sam could almost see the brow arch on her face.

"Oh, really?"

"Um…yes?"

"Well, then, I suppose you're lucky that I was already planning on it. Poor boy needs to eat anyway. Too skinny."

"Shelley, I wouldn't call him skinny. He's pretty built…"

"Are you questioning me, Kevin?"

"No, ma'am."

"That's what I thought."

He moved back from the door as they separated, knowing that Wordy would soon be coming to check on him. Heading to the bathroom, he turned the shower a little cooler, then gingerly began to peel his clothes off. He swallows a gasp or two, holds back a hiss, and fights the urge to just rip his clothes away from the skin because they're getting caught on little areas of blood here and there. Once his shirt is off, he examines his skin in the mirror, unsurprised to see large splotches of bruising covering most of his back and half of his chest. He imagines it's from the kicks his father delivered to his body, though whether he was conscious or not, he doesn't really remember.

Some of the bruising has deepened as the hours past, and a few leave him wondering if they're bone deep. Considering every part of him aches, it's kind of hard to tell. He lifts his shoulder and arm away from his body, gingerly probing at the skin covering his ribs and is glad to see that none of them are broken. Another shift of his body and he does groan this time. No broken ribs, but definitely a few bruised, if not cracked.

Great. Injuries to the ribs take forever to heal.

Knowing that he's running out of time, he gets in the shower carefully, wincing and cringing as the water hits a few open cuts and pounds on his deeper bruises. He doesn't take long, having never gotten used to long showers after his time in the military, and when finished, he feels marginally better even as he dreads the coming confrontation with Wordy.

There's no way to get out of it though, as it was somewhat an unspoken agreement when he turned down the SRU medic, but it doesn't stop him from hating it.

A knock on the bathroom door is accompanied by his name, and he quickly secures the towel around his waist before opening the door a crack, enough for him to look out. It's Wordy, a pile of clothes in his hand, and he smiles at Sam.

"Hey, got some clothes for you. Meet me in the living room when you're done? Shelley's got the girls in the kitchen and I want to look you over where there's more room."

Knowing he can't refuse, he nods quickly before shutting the door.

The next thing he knows, he's sitting on the couch with no shirt on and Wordy pacing the floor furiously, sputtering in near-incoherent rage.

"What…how…he's dead…I swear…damn bastard…I'm gonna…I'm gonna kill him…rip his balls off and shove them down his throat….he's dead…maybe I can get Ed to come and Sarge to drive…because I swear the _goddamned_ bastard is dead…walking dead man…"

And in a way, Sam has never felt more cared for as he watches the older man wear a hole in the floor.

His ranting, however, gets Shelley's attention, and she crosses the floor to her husband. Reaching out, she tries to get him to talk but he can't seem to form a single coherent thought. She looks around to try and determine what set him off, when her eyes land on Sam and everything is suddenly clear.

At her stare, Sam snaps out of it and grabs his shirt, intent on covering the damage, but is stopped by the pain that lances through him as he jars his ribs. He folds over with a groan, arms coming up protectively to his torso. He's brought out of his pain-induced near-catatonic state when two sets of hands grab his shoulders gently and slowly bring him upright. It's then he becomes aware of the voices speaking to him.

"-am? Listen to me, Sam. You gotta stay upright, alright? Once I wrap your ribs, we can get you lying down but until then, you have to stay still? Do you hear me, Sam?"

"Sweetie? Come on, Sam, it's alright. Breathe through it, okay? That's it." A gentle hand brushes through his hair but stops when he winces and groans, fingers catching a cut on his scalp.

"Kev, he's got a cut here. It's not bleeding but it looks kind of deep. He might need a hospital for all this, he's pretty bad off."

He manages to find his breath long enough to bring his head up. He reaches out and snags Wordy's hand, a plea in his eyes.

"No, Wordy, please. No hospitals."

"Sam, I don't know. She's right, you're pretty bad off. I don't-,"

"Wordy, please. Trust me. I need you to trust me right now. It's not that bad, okay? I've had worse, and I know when it's something that requires more than what I can handle. Please, man, trust me on this."

Maybe it's the sincerity in his voice or the desperation in his face, he isn't sure, but it gets the desired result. A slow nod from both Wordy and Shelley, and suddenly, Sam can breath a lot easier.

"Wordy, I promise, if it gets worse or I start coughing up blood, you can drag me to the hospital and yell at me for it later, alright?"

"Damn right I will, Braddock. But I'll hold off for now."

Together, they ease him into a straight position perfect for Wordy to wrap his ribs, which the other man sets about doing immediately. Shelley is sitting next to him, helping him keep his balance, and telling him about the newest stories concerning her girls. Maybe it's his exhaustion that makes him open up. Maybe it's the care they've shown him ever since he's entered their house, hell, their lives. Maybe it's because he's reached the end of his rope and he has nothing to lose except his own mind. Whatever the reason, he starts talking, and once he does, he can't stop.

"You were right, Wordy."

They both look at him questioningly, but he's too afraid to see the looks on their faces as he speaks, so he focuses on a point on the wall in front of him.

"You were right about my father. He's the one who did this."

Shelley's hand tightens on his even as Wordy pauses for a moment. He still won't look at them.

"I don't know what I did. I'm pretty sure I said something that set him off. But then again, he doesn't really need a reason, you know? Any excuse works for him."

Sam sighed deeply.

"I haven't been by there in a while, since before I joined the SRU. I joined the military at his urging, but really, it was for me. It was my escape. But then, when I left, well, he wasn't very happy. I didn't care though."

He looked down at the floor briefly, gathering his thoughts, wincing slightly as Wordy brushed a sore spot on his ribs.

"He didn't approve of me joining the SRU but that only made me happier. And it gave me yet another reason not to see him. Then my mother called me the other day, wanting me to come by for a visit. And it's my mother, you know?"

He sighed again.

"We've never been close, her and I, but I was raised to be a gentleman and the perfect son. And perfect sons visit when their mothers ask them to. So I did, hoping that maybe, maybe things would go alright. Maybe they would go different."

Sam closed his eyes, forcing the next words out.

"But I was wrong. Nothing had changed. And when the dust had settled, I realized that there was no reason to ever go back. He knocked me unconscious this time." He swallowed hard. "Who's to say that the next time, he won't kill me?"

It's silent, husband and wife shocked into silence, he isn't sure but he's said what he'd intended to say and now, it's up to them. Shelley's arm is shaking slightly but since he won't look at them, he can't tell what they're thinking.

"Sam, look at me."

He shakes his head. He _can't_.

"Please, Sam. Please, look at me. I need you to look at me."

Sam gives in then, turning to look at Wordy with tired and dull blue eyes. If the other man wants to condemn him, he'll let him, because he has nothing to fight back with.

"You have done nothing wrong, do you hear me? Nothing. He's at fault. Not you. You got that?"

And in the face of such determined truth, Sam can only nod his head. Because when Wordy says it like that, he has to believe him.

They're all quiet for a few moments while Wordy finishes with his ribs. Shelley continues running her hand up and down his arm in a soothing, comforting gesture, and it makes his eyes burn, because his mother has never touched him like that, with love or care. His mother had never touched him as far back as he can remember. But this woman sitting next to him is nothing like his. Shelley is a good mother.

Wordy moves to sit across from him on the low table, using a damp cloth to wipe away any excess dirt or blood on his face and lip. He applied a few butterfly strips to a cut or two near his eye, then sat back and looked the blonde sniper over critically for anything he'd missed.

"Judging by your reaction, this isn't the first time, is it?"

It's a statement, not a question, and Sam doesn't need to confirm what Wordy already knows.

"Son of a bitch."

Sam smiled bleakly. "Yep."

"Son of a _bitch_."

"Careful, that's my grandmother you're insulting."

Wordy isn't smiling though. With a slow but firm hand, he grabbed Sam's chin and looked directly into his eyes.

"You're never going back there. Got it?"

And where Sam would normally balk at such a command, said in such a controlling voice, the caring sentiment behind it stops him. Instead, he reaches up carefully and touches the other man's wrist.

"I know, Wordy. I wasn't planning on it."

Wordy searches his eyes, then nods, before letting him go and sitting back a little.

"So let me get this straight. I need to make sure I didn't miss anything. He hit you. No, he beat you. He gave you bruises and a split lip and a minor concussion and bruised ribs."

He isn't going to lie anymore. He's not protecting himself if he does. "Yes."

"Goddamnit." Wordy turned his head for a moment, swallowing hard, then turned back to the younger man. "What else did he do?"

Sam shrugged. "Didn't stick around to find out."

There's silence, heavy with the weight of unburdened secrets, before the soft crystal of Shelley speaking cuts through.

"Sam? Would there…is there something else he would have done?"

Wordy looked sharply at Shelley, his brow furrowed in puzzlement, but at the silence from Sam turned back to look at the younger man. Caught off guard, Sam's jaw clenched and he swallowed hard, bile rising in his throat at the intrusive, but well-meaning question.

But he can't answer that question. There are some secrets even he can't divulge. Some nightmares too dark to dream. Some truths too hard to bear.

So he shakes his head quickly, even as everybody pretends that he hadn't hesitated, and looks away, unable to let them see the conflict in his eyes. And if Shelley doesn't swallow a gasp of her own and Wordy doesn't clench his fist in desperate anger, well, he can pretend they didn't. Sam's good at pretending.

"Have you ever told anybody?"

"There was never anybody to tell, Wordy."

But Wordy has already worked himself up, protective concern warring with slight hurt.

"What about your family, Sam? What about us? Your team, your friends-we're all here for you. You could have talked to us. We would have helped you."

The next thing he knows, he's laughing hysterically, agitation and fury in every line of his body, even as he spits out his words.

"Help me? Right, because we're such good, solid buds. How were you going to help me, Wordy? I'm a goddamned soldier and I let my father beat me to a pulp. You can't help me."

The other man starts to speak but Sam isn't stopping now.

"You want to talk about family? Fine. Let's talk family. You know what family is? Lies. Lies wrapped in shiny paper and doused in gasoline because all they do is hurt. They hurt and destroy and take until there's nothing left but more lies. Don't talk to me about family. I'm done with them."

His voice cracks then, his anger bleeding away until there's only a tired resignation left.

"I don't have any family, Wordy. That's the truth. And I'm okay with that. I have to be. I don't have any other choice. I'll be alone until I'm set free."

But Wordy is shaking his head, earnest belief in every line of his face and body. He leans forward, grabbing hold of Sam gently by the arm and speaks.

"No, Sam. You do. You have us. The team, me, Shelley-all of us. We're your family now. All you have to do is trust that. Trust us."

And he's so tired. Tired of carrying the burden, of hiding his pain behind a mask that's beginning to crack under the strain of all his secrets and lies. And what he's offering sounds so good. It sounds like a way to finally be free, to be something other than alone.

"Let it go, Sam. I've got you."

So he lets go, falling into the security the other man is offering him. Hot tears slide down his face and he lets them, because holding them in has only been hurting him.

Then arms are around him, a hand running gentle circles on his back, and for the first time since his father had ever raised a hand against him, he feels safe. He feels wanted.

It feels like coming home.

He spends a couple nights at Wordy's house, then a few more at Ed's, and if he kind of feels like a lost little puppy getting passed around, it's okay, because he feels wanted, and that's good enough for him.

And if he'd had any doubts at how protective his team can be, they were laid to rest a few weeks later when his father had shown up unexpectedly at headquarters.

Somehow, he'd managed to corner Sam in one of the conference rooms. Caught off guard, he'd barely been able to react before his father had been a few feet in front of him and threatening him in his typical, low-toned voice. So intent on the figure in front of him, Sam failed to notice the others appearing in the doorway until someone was between him and his father, while two others were pulling him gently backwards. He looks and sees Spike and Lew on either side of him, them being the ones who'd pulled him back, and then spies Wordy, standing protectively in front of him, shielding Sam, with Jules backing him up.

Ed and Sarge are the next ones he sees, the former right in his fathers' face and backing the General backwards and away from his son, a look of cold anger on his face even as he walks. Sarge is standing at the doorway, watching the rest of the team, and together, he and Ed walk Sam's father past the front desk and out of the building.

Back in the room, Sam is breathing heavily but still there, and he looks at the others standing around him, hovering even if they'd never admit it. He smiles then, because he's realized something, and it is that blood doesn't mean anything when it comes to family. Family is the one that you choose.

And he's chosen them, has from the very beginning, and best of all, they have chosen him in return. It's more than he could ask for, better than he'd ever wanted, and now he knows that sometimes, good things really do happen to him. Because these few, these chosen few, have shown that they will protect him and in return, all he has to do is trust them.

"Sam? You okay?"

And he looks them all in the eye, cocks his head, and smiles.

"Better than."

Because he is. For the first time in a long time, he thinks he might be alright.

And that's good enough for him.

Enough for the nightmares to settle for awhile, enough for his jumpiness to abate, and enough for him to believe that he's finally found a place to belong.

Enough for him to trust that family doesn't always have to break you.

Because sometimes family is the only thing strong enough to put you back together and the only ones willing to do whatever they have to in order to keep you that way.

Now he understands what it truly means to be free.

/


End file.
